Stuff as Dreams are Made On
by KPtheMoviesaholic
Summary: Collection of Drabbles on ArthurxAriadne. What surrounds their lives, their dreams. And...love? Goodbye, Suit, Dream, Questions...
1. Dream

His eyes snapped open, surveying his surroundings. His memories had failed him on when he had fallen asleep, or landed on a king-sized bed.

The bed was unkempt, its sheets rumpled, and he was only resting on one side, apparently having made room for another person. He rolled over, only to find the person missing. Arthur lay on his back, contemplating his situation.

How the heck did he get here?

This hotel room. This fantastic beach resort. The view. Summer breeze.

No analysis or mind games necessary. His typical dream.

But the bed?

He racked his head. Explanations rooted to silence. Unkempt beds were anomalies to his dreams. He'd wake up, satisfied that the bedsheets were made, close his eyes, dream within a dream a bit, throw on whatever suits his moods, and enjoy whatever his subconscious had left to offer.

Noises in the bathroom. He lifted his eyes, and the sight filled him with a delirious mixture of incredulity and desire.

Ariadne, her only attire his favorite white shirt, her hair disheveled, a cloud of charming absentmindedness adorning her face.

Her again. This was not the first time she had made an unannounced appearance in his dream (and he hoped with some hesitation on his part that it should not be the last). Lest he wasted a moment to make sense of it.

He liked her. Her adeptness at her job, her uncanny sense of design, her habitual patterned and plain scarves and her red sweater, down to her warm brown eyes, her rich voice…

He liked her. He thought he did.

His subconscious was attracted to her. Restless.

He knew he shouldn't. There was the stupid, blurred border between dreams and reality Cobb and Mal had muddled themselves in. And the fact that he had to remind himself not to think of her.

He really wished (had he not busied himself savoring the sight of her, he'd kicked himself out of the dream) what separated them were something else normal, for dreams' sake.

But under their job descriptions there were no 'normal.' Or legal.

He loved his job.

He 'had taken a liking' (in Eames's word. Damn the forger) to his female colleague (not the first time, another reason why he had held on to his denial so grudgingly).

He had locked himself in a maze without an exit.

To indulge himself in either path was to endanger both.

"Woke up already?" she raised an eyebrow.

He cleared his throat, gathering himself back in the present (or what seemed to him as the present at the moment. He chided himself a little on the realistic aspects of the dream.).

"Morning." He gave her a shaky smile, hesitant of her response.

She smiled, approaching him on the bed.

"Morning."

She leaned in closer for a kiss, one of the best he'd had in a dreamlike state.

Engrossed, he forgot to think, his runaway conscience fading.

His lips nuzzled her neck, her hand playing with his hair, his wandering to her shoulders, and he heard himself mumble.

"I love you, Ariadne."

Almost abruptly, too abruptly, she backed away from him, as if repelled by an invisible force.

He stared at her, confused.

She licked her lips, a glint of mischief he swore incompatible, uncharacteristic to her face evident in her eyes. "So you've admitted it."

"Admitted what?" he asked, dazed. What short pleasurable sesion he'd shared with her befuddled his mind.

"That you love me."

He coughed. His senses tingled. This. This was not good. "Uh…I did. Why?"

She laughed, to his bewilderment, and he saw her morph before his eyes into the last person he wanted to meet in his dreams (no, really).

Eames. In his full, formal suit and tie.

The Forger was apparently enjoying himself. Laughing so hard he'd rolled on the bed.

Arthur watched, and he wondered even then why he waited before physically tackling the bastard.

"How—punch—the—punch—hell," he breathed, nearly straddling Eames, "Did you get into my dream?"

Eames grinned from below him, his hands wading off Arthur's aimless punches.

"Few simple tricks you don't need to know about, darling."

Darling! That mention of his nickname again! Since the darn mission call where (Cobb was unavaliable and) the guy had to call on him at his home…and heard his mother (bless her soul) holler for him.

God, the label irritated him. For one, it seemed to yell out in situations that Eames had the upper hand.

Taking advantage of his silence, the devil freed himself from his grip, sitting next to him on the bed.

Now this was not the vacation he dreamed about.

"Wonderful, huh," said Eames. "Liked what I did? Ariadne in your favorite shirt." He clicked his fingers in delight. "Knew you'd devour that."

He wanted to admit that he loved what the Forger had conjured up, but then sickness rose in his throat. And he felt the need to vomit.

He was kissing his old best mate.

"Not funny, Eames," he managed. "You've gone utterly insane with this Forger role of yours."

Eames heaved a mock sigh, further annoying Arthur. "Tut, tut, you're just irked because it's Ariadne, love."

Her name sent electric shock through his body. He turned to Eames.

"You—can't—tell—anyone."

Eames comically blocked his ears, to Arthur's dismay. "Yada yada. Can't hear you." He paused, and jumped a little, excited at a sound Arthur perceived to be from 'upstairs,' in his dream (the outside world, of course, in reality).

"Ha!" Eames exclaimed. "Someone's coming. Time to wake up."

Before he could formulate a proper answer, Arthur was given the kick against his will, Eames's teasing voice still clear in his ears.

His eyes snapped open.

And Ariadne's face hovered before him.

He blinked.

"Is this real?" His other hand grabbing hold of his dice.

Eames's laughter reached his ears again. He felt a hand patting his back, and heard Eames's 'assuring-mode' voice saying, "Bit dazed, Ariadne, he just got back from a dream."

Ariadne nodded with a small smile.

But she would never understand. And he would never wanted to explain.

He remained rigid in his chair, fumbling with his hands. Ariadne stood beside Eames, watching over him.

Eames traced a hand on his shoulder. His hair prickled. "Anything you need to tell her, darling?"

He shook his head. The nickname sounded even more awful in reality.

Ariadne's eyes widened in wonder. "Something to tell me?"

Something he'd rather not tell her, more like.

"No," a mumble was all he could offer.

Ariadne's mouth curved into an 'O.' Eames whistled, clearly disappointed.

"Oh," she said. "All right then," and strolled off from his sight.

He breathed.

It just wasn't time to tell her yet.

He wasn't sure himself if she should tell her. At all.

* * *

The Forger grabbed hold of the Architect. She was hard at work (as usual) and he was goofing off (as usual).

He pulled her aside, leading her on a walk down the hallway.

"Tell me, Ariadne," he said, his arm encircling her shoulders.

"Do you still want to hear about Arthur's _very _interesting dream…the one he refused to tell you about?"

**A/N: :P**

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	2. Goodbye

Goodbye

Goodbye, he said. His brief word seemed to disappear before her ears could fully comprehend its impact, just as he was going turn away in a matter of seconds.

So that was it?

The mission completed. Terminated. Gone. And so was their frail hold on what seemed to spell relationship?

Not that she would care. But the rush, the delirium of dreaming, of reality and truths, became tangled in her thoughts.

There was nothing. Nothing. She tried comforting herself. It was a job. It was a part-time alliance. And the man before her was merely offering a polite word to signal his leave.

Out of her life.

She watched him. Standing there in his fancy pinstriped suit, his bowtie that she adored in its ludicrousness. His brown eyes glancing downwards every now and then at his Rolex. Waiting.

She noticed with a cold jolt that he still had not turned away.

"Ariadne?"

She blinked. As much as she would despise herself if she had let him leave, her name whispered in his tongue almost forced the obligatory words out of hers.

"Goodbye, Arthur."

His lips tightened into a thin line, the ghost of a smile on his face.

"Goodbye." He said once more, softly, his tone caressing the fragile, futile word.

She gave a curt nod. She heard him the first time all right. She hated it even more that he had the nerve to repeat the word.

Just get it over with and leave, for God's sake.

It wasn't like her to be so sentimental. It wasn't like him to be so…so…she searched, frustrated, for a suitable word, her mind wringing itself, searching for a place to rest…

She closed her eyes, infinity, her solace, enveloping her. Her mind struggled through its maze. Her breaths steadying.

You think too much, he told her once.

Well, I'm not going to. Not anymore.

You sprung thoughts into my mind, know that? She retorted back. It's you who's making me think so much.

And the worst part was, she hardly understood why.

They'd had casual chit-chats while going through the customs and waiting for their luggage. Hesitation blocked her path at her exit. He turned back to face her.

And just like in dreams, time seemed to slow.

She didn't know why the crisp, calmed sound of his voice stopped her chatty mouth. Did not know why his parting words spun her head around. Words rushed out of her mind, but her lips refused to cooperate.

She could have asked him to go for a bite. The airport café? Anything. She could have said anything.

The possibilities numbed her. She wasn't going to wait. She wasn't going to think. Wasn't the slightest bit going to dream.

She'd opened her eyes and say something more. Open her eyes and ask him her burning questions. Open her eyes and …

…ask him to stay.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! More to come!**

**Ideas, suggestions welcome. How was it?**

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**Have a nice day :D**

**Your ever humble fanfic writer :)**


	3. Suit

Suit

Arthur bent down his head in an attempt to inspect the mess which presently colored his perfect, flawless suit.

There were creases and insignificant black dots from then and there. Unwanted souvenirs from his adventures with Cobb and long before. Stains he could disregard. Memories he could discard. For apart from those petty reminders of his past, he relished in his suit's perfection.

The pitch black suit, so dark its pinstripes were hardly visible. Its sharp, crisp texture, like the creases had been ironed with soap (the only and correct way Arthur had preferred his clothes be handled).

Its details of perfection, invaded by a damp, pale blot of a deep brown shade, adorning the area just below his left chest. It wasn't a huge stain. Nothing he had to fret about, but its visibility, its presence disturbed him.

And the smell.

One of the best aromas he'd had the pleasure to sense. Ariadne's specially brew cup of cappuccino.

They were at the warehouse, working late, till the sunlight had retreated from the room and darkness crawled in. He yawned a little whilst the Architect was presenting to him her maze for their next target, and suddenly sat up in his office chair, straightening himself. Ariadne smiled, a wonderful habit of hers he was getting accustomed to, a curl of the lips that softened her face.

She drew her hand up, away from the model she had been conscientiously constructing earlier. She told him it was late (he adored how she constantly was reminding him of the world around them, whereas he was lost in his dreams, his mind most of the time), and asked if he would like a cup of coffee.

He remembered nodding his head before he was aware of himself. Maybe sleepiness was indeed taking its toll on him. He never much had co-workers' cups of coffee since his first awful incident with Eames' (what he would rather not recall). The horrid, pungent smell lingering on his nose for quite a while after…

…Ariadne's was an enticing mix, inviting blend of coffee and milk, in perfect proportions…

The smell greeted him before she had stepped into the room. He drank it in gladly, his throat awaiting the warmth in the two red cups, one on either side of her arms.

She walked closer, her right foot passing safely the wires Cobb had been hooking up the apartment with in the morning, and he suppressed a small grin at the mock seriousness on her face. The little things which made it enjoyable to work (to _work!_) with her.

Hold on.

She was grinning at him playfully one minute. The next, her left foot stumbled over one of the wires, and before he could fully grasp the incident, the petite form of Ariadne collapsed atop of him, coffee spilling on the floor…

That he didn't mind.

But there was his suit…

…and the fact that the Architect's face was positioned so close, so breathlessly close, to his own, her brunette hair draping all over his suit, her arms hanging limply (the coffee cups dropped with clanks! sounds on the floor) by her side, hands awkwardly touching his, legs almost melting into his lap.

He had never felt more conscious of her eyes, alert and directed at him, than at that moment.

The whole time he was wrestling with his thoughts, his consciousness, only seconds had passed.

Her warm breath—and the refreshing perfume scent she had recently bought for herself when they had gotten back to Paris—sprayed on his neck.

Slowly he drew his lean finger on her cheek.

Her breaths hitched.

He smiled, his hands caressing her face. She reached up a hand, as if to delay his wandering ones, but he ignored her.

His lips met hers the next second. She tasted of coffee, of sweetness, the caffeine that was his only vice. He was surprised himself when she started kissing him back.

It was a shot. Another shot, if he had to say so. That she had given in so easily. Not to a peck on the lips as a pretense to defend themselves from his subconscious, but to a real kiss, happening to him in reality that he'd (again) initiated.

And as he deepened the kiss, her hands tracing over the creases in his suit, he was pretty sure he'd treasure that stain after all.

* * *

**A/N: Coffee. mhm. Arthur/Ariadne: TBC.  
**

**Love and thanks to you all,**

**Your ever humble fanfic writer :)  
**


	4. Questions

"Arthur."

"Hmm?"

"Why did you kiss me?"

"Fisher's subconscious was looking at us."

"Come on, you know better. A kiss wouldn't fend them off."

Pause.

"It's nothing. Don't think about it."

"Arthur."

"Yes, Ariadne?"

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm—not…lying. Why do you want to know anyway?"

"Nothing. Don't think about it."

"Ariadne."

"Hmm?"

"Why did you kiss me back?"

"Fisher's subconscious was looking at us."

"Come on, you know better. A kiss wouldn't fend them off."

Pause.

"Arthur."

"I wouldn't say, 'yes.'"

"Do you know we're back where we started?"

"Apparently you don't want us to go anywhere else."

"Guess…but don't ask."

"No more questions?"

"Your questions are as nonsensical as mine."

"At least you asked, and I wondered why…"

"Arthur."

"Hmm?"

"I won't even ask."

"What?"

"Shut up."

**A/N: Silly snapshot**

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**Your ever humble fanfic writer :)  
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